


instead of the cross, the albatross

by 75hearts



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 21:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: 7 short scenes, about the 8 oathbound and their reactions if they're the ones the recover the silmarils (and discover that they are burned).





	instead of the cross, the albatross

He no longer wears them in his crown.

Instead he stares at them. Their light reflects pale and strange in his eyes. He does not allow anyone else to see them.

When he emerges from his chambers--it is getting rarer and rarer, these days--his skin is mottled red and white with burns and scars. It is hard to tell if the fire inside him is getting larger or if it is going out completely. Either way, he is being eaten up. He has stopped eating and sleeping; his pupils are tiny dots in his face, unused to a lack of brilliance.

One day, he does not let go of the silmarils when they burn him.

Nobody enters his chambers. Nobody is sure if they should award Maitimo the kingship. Certainly it is the longest he has ever been in there, staring--certainly he should be dead by now--but Curufinwë Fëanáro has never been one to listen to _shoulds._  And so Maitimo is not kinged.

A pile of ash sits on the floor, in the chambers of the High King of the Noldor, sparkling in the light of the Two Trees.

 

-

 

It burns, and--of course it would, of _course_ \--and Maedhros had known it would, of course he knew. He had always known. But he had not thought about it, had not let himself think about it, because the moment he thought about it--

All he had done--

(And suddenly he is back in a forest, freezing, faces flashing through his mind--)

All for nothing, he can’t even hold it, the oath still burns in him unfulfilled, hotter than the fire in his palm--

He is evil now, and all for nothing.

He falls. The lava feels blissfully cool.

 

-

 

He does not leave the shore. He stares at the sea, and he sings.

He sings of finding Finwë’s body. He sings of Alqualondë, of what it is like to kill for the first time. He sings of the fire on the shores of Losgar, of the way Maedhros was never the same after Angband, of five hundred years of pointless war. Of the way he could not sing wounds closed, after Doriath. Of barging into a refugee camp at Sirion, steel slashing the air until it was rank with the smell of blood. Of two small, terrified children, hiding behind a waterfall. Of the guards they had put around the jewels, and the way that killing them had ceased to feel like anything. Of the smell of burning flesh, and the way he didn’t know if it was his or his brother’s.

He stares at the water that used to be Beleriand, and wonders if his family will remain in Mandos forever. He is unsure if that is a better or worse fate than his own.

Ships come and go, eventually. Mostly they go.

Maglor stays. He is fading; his voice is quiet, raspy, burnt out from overuse, and his body is almost translucent. He considers leaving, but--no, he is a coward still. So he sings, and sings, and sings.

His voice has not lost its magic. Ghosts of it all spring alive in the air, illusory visions of a world now forgotten. Nobody is around to see it but him. Until the end of the world, he sings and stares, surrounded by his own worst memories, slowly disappearing.

 

-

 

Celegorm is not surprised by the sizzle. It’s satisfying, almost, and he allows himself a grin. _He did it._

“It’s burning you,” someone says, frightened.

Celegorm tilts his head, only half paying attention. “So it is,” he says, and sets it down.

 

-

 

Caranthir screams at it until he nearly passes out from lack of oxygen, until his voice has gone sore and every breath is painful and raw. “It’s not _fair_ ,” he cries, petulant as a child. Tears stream down his face. Everyone has left, letting him be alone in this moment. He would be grateful if he had the presence of mind to notice. Then, quieter: “Please. Please.” His voice breaks. He stares at their uncaring shine, his stomach knotting, and wishes for something, anything else. There is no orc here to kill, no elves to glare at, no satisfaction to be gained. He cannot even punch a wall without the blister breaking and reminding him. There is nothing, really, besides the burn on his hand and the terrible beauty of three gems that have done nothing wrong. ( _Indeed, that is the entire problem,_ he would think _,_ if he could think. He does not think. Instead, he weeps, and tries still to scream. _They are blessed; and I have not been innocent for many years, yet still I wish to touch them._ )

 

-

 

They say Curufin never sets them down, even to sleep. His hand deteriorates slowly, from pink to red to black until the skin begins melting off and bone-white can be seen. By the time the crown is made--holding them has grown inconvenient, for a craftsman--even his bones are charred.

He does not take the crown off, either. The skin around it bubbles. Curufin’s face is set. He does not cry. He cried once, touching it for the first time, instinctively flinching away instead of holding it close. He hadn’t expected it to burn.

But--he may be evil, but he was resolute. _Whosoever casteth afar,_  he had said, and he would not be made a liar. And so he took it again, clutching it, and willed away his tears.

Never again did he cry.

 

-

 

Amras sends messengers to his brothers. (Amrod does too, if he is there.)

_It’s over._

_You can have one. I don’t want them._

_They burn us. I should’ve known they would._

_We’re evil now, you understand?_

_Just take them, please._

_Curse the oath. Curse the Doom. Curse it all._


End file.
